etimes a paragraph, now and then an entire
chapter, to which Dick submitted pleasantly. He loved the smooth, soft
cadence of Elaine's low voice, whether she read or spoke, so, in a way, it
did not matter. But, one day, when she had read uninterruptedly for over
an hour, Dick was seized with a violent fit of coughing.

"I say," he began, when the paroxysm had ceased; "you like books, don't
you?"

"Indeed I do--don't you?"

"Er--yes, of course, but say--aren't you tired of reading?"

"Not at all. You needn't worry about me. When I'm tired, I'll stop."

She was pleased with his kindly thought for her comfort, and thereafter
read a great deal by way of reward. As for Dick, he burned the midnight
candle over many a book which he found inexpressibly dull, and skilfully
led the conversation to it the next day. Soon, even Harlan was impressed
by his wide knowledge of literature, though no one noted that about books
not in Uncle Ebeneezer's library, Dick knew nothing at all.

Dorothy spent much of her time in her own room, thus forcing Dick and
Elaine to depend upon each other for society. Quite often she was lonely,
and longed for their cheery chatter, but sternly reminded herself that she
was being sacrificed in a good cause. She built many an air castle for
them as well as for herself, furnishing both, impartially, with Elaine's
old mahogany and the simple furniture Dick was making out of Uncle
Ebeneezer's relics.

By this time the Jack-o'-Lantern was nearly stripped of everything which
might prove useful, and they were burning the rest of it in the fireplace
at night. "Varnished hardwood," as Dick said, "makes a peach of a blaze."

Meanwhile Harlan was labouring steadfastly at his manuscript. The glowing
fancy from which the book had sprung was quite gone. Still, as he cut,
rearranged, changed, interlined, reconstructed and polished, he was not
wholly unsatisfied with his work. "It may not be very good," he said to
himself, "but it's the best I can do--now. The next will be better, I'm
sure." He knew, even then, that there would be a "next one," for the
eternal thirst which knows no quenching had seized upon his inmost soul.

Hereafter, by an inexplicably swift reversion, he should see all life as
literature, and literature as life. Friends and acquaintances should all
be, in his inmost consciousness, ephemeral. And Dorothy--dearly as he
loved her, was separated from him as by a veil.

Still, as he worked, he came